more screaming, either.”
“Then what?” Jack asked.
“Then I waited for the cops.”
“You didn’t go into the hall?”
“Why would I?”
“To see what happened.”
“Are you crazy? How was I to know who might be out there in the hall?
Maybe one of them with a gun was still out there.”
“So you didn’t see anyone. Or hear anything important, like a name?”
“I already told you. No.”
Jack couldn’t think of anything more to ask. He looked at Rebecca, and
she seemed stymied, too. Another dead end.
They got up from their chairs, and Burt Wicke-still fidgety, still
whining-said, “This has been a rotten trip from the beginning,
absolutely rotten. First, I have to make the entire flight from Chicago
sitting next to a little old lady from Peoria who wouldn’t shut up.
Boring old bitch. And the plane hit turbulence like you wouldn’t
believe. Then yesterday, two deals fall through, and I find out my
hotel has rats, an expensive hotel like this-”
“Rats?” Jack asked.
“Huh? ”
“You said the hotel has rats.”
“Well, it does.”
“You’ve seen them?” Rebecca asked.
“It’s a disgrace,” Wicke said. “A place like this, with such an
almighty reputation, but crawling with rats.”
“Have you seen them?” Rebecca repeated.
Wicke cocked his head, frowned. “Why’re you so interested in rats?
That’s got nothing to do with the murders.”
“Have you seen them?” Rebecca repeated in a harsher voice.
“Not exactly. But I heard them. In the walls.”
“You heard rats in the walls?”
“Well, in the heating system, actually. They sounded close, like they
were right here in these walls, but you know how those hollow metal
heating ducts can carry sound. The rats might’ve been on another floor,
even in another wing, but they sure sounded close. I got up on the desk
there and put my ear to the vent, and I swear they couldn’t’ve been
inches away. Squeaking. A funny sort of squeaking. Chittering,
twittering sounds. Maybe half a dozen rats, by the sound of it. I
could hear their claws scraping on metal . . . a scratchy, rattly
noise that gave me the creeps. I complained, but the management here
doesn’t bother attending to complaints. From the way they treat their
guests, you’d never know this was supposed to be one of the finest
hotels in the city.”
Jack figured Burt Wicke had lodged an unreasonable number of vociferous,
petty complaints prior to hearing the rats. By that time, the
management had tagged him as either a hopeless neurotic or a grifter who
was trying to establish excuses for not paying his bill.
Having paced to the window, Wicke looked up at the winter sky, down at
the street far below. “And now it’s snowing. On top of everything
else, the weather’s got to turn rotten. It isn’t fair.”
The man no longer reminded Jack of a toad. Now he seemed like a
six-foot-tall, fat, hairy, stumpy-legged baby.
Rebecca said, “When did you hear the rats?”
“This morning. Just after I finished breakfast, I called down to the
front desk to tell them how terrible their room service food was. After
a highly unsatisfactory conversation with the clerk on duty, I put the
phone down-and that’s the very moment when I heard the rats. After I’d
listened to them a while and was positively sure they were rats, I
called the manager himself to complain about that, again without
satisfactory results. That’s when I made up my mind to get a shower,
dress, pack my suitcases, and find a new hotel before my first business
appointment of the day.”
“Do you remember the exact time when you heard the rats?”
“Not to the minute. But it must’ve been around eight-thirty.”
Jack glanced at Rebecca. “About one hour before the killing started
next door.”
She looked troubled. She said, “Weirder and weirder.”
In the death suite, the three ravaged bodies still lay where they had
fallen.
The lab men hadn’t finished their work. In the parlor, one of them was
vacuuming the carpet around the corpse. The sweepings would be analyzed
later.
Jack and Rebecca went to the nearest heating vent, a
one-foot-by-eight-inch rectangular plate mounted on the wall, a few